“I was on a shopping expedition,” she began, quietly, slowly, “at Reichmann amp; Company, near Leopoldstrasse. I assume you are familiar with that establishment, Inspector?”
Before I could answer Wagner interjected, “They are Jews, Preiss, but one can’t avoid shopping there. The plain fact is, they have the finest upholstery fabrics in Munich and, believe it or not, they don’t overcharge.”
“Richard, please,” Cosima said sharply, “do not interrupt. Let me finish what I have to say.” As if to soften this rebuke she gave Wagner a pat on the cheek, then went on: “I was browsing on the main floor of the store, looking at window coverings — curtains, drapes, those sorts of things — and then at an assortment of lace antimacassars — ”
“Antimacassars?” I said, smiling curiously. “I thought they went out of fashion a century ago, Madam Wagner.”
“Not at all, Inspector. You would be surprised at the number of guests, men mostly, who stain our chairs and sofas with their abominable hair oil and pomades. It offends my standards of housekeeping, I tell you. But we are digressing, are we not? I had completed my inspection of materials on the main floor where, incidentally, there were a number of customers, and had moved to the second storey to look at furniture coverings. There was only one other person on that floor, a woman who had followed me up the stairs. She was dressed in black, head to toe, wore a large black hat, and her face was heavily veiled, as though she were in mourning. I thought it strange that a woman in such funereal attire would be shopping at a store like Reichmann amp; Company but, as the French say, chacun à son goût. So I paid no further attention to her at first. But then it occurred to me that wherever I moved on that floor she followed … followed closely, almost tracing my steps. I began to feel a bit uncomfortable, as you can perhaps imagine, Inspector. After all, there were just the two of us; none of the store staff were present at the moment. So I turned abruptly and made as if to take the stairs back to the main floor but this woman blocked my way, not accidentally but very deliberately. I said, ‘Excuse me,’ but she stood rooted in such a way that I could not possibly get by. The stairway is narrow and she was forming a complete barrier. I repeated, ‘Excuse me.’ Still she did not budge. Then, without a word she pressed an envelope into my hand, turned swiftly, and practically fled down the stairs. I did not see her again.”
“Give the envelope to Inspector Preiss, Cosima,” Wagner said, again displaying a gentleness I had not imagined him capable of.
Cosima Wagner reached for a small leather handbag and extracted a plain white envelope, the kind one used to enclose a calling card. As she handed it to me her composure melted somewhat and she sank back on the settee, once again allowing Wagner to cradle her.
I opened the envelope, took out a card, and read its message, the first time silently, the second time aloud. “Richard and Cosima … like Tristan and Isolde you will both very soon enter the realm of the Night.”
“Did you manage to get at least a glimpse of the woman’s features?” I asked.
“Not really, Inspector, I’m sorry to say. As I mentioned, she was all in black, and rather thickly clothed. The only thing that strikes me, now that I think of it, is that she was rather tall. And despite her apparel, it was evident that she possessed a rather imposing figure. Somewhat bosomy, one might say. The way she moved … I mean she flew down the stairs … I would judge her to be a young woman, perhaps in her twenties.” With a shudder, Cosima Wagner added, her voice trailing into a sob, “I hope to God I never see her again.”
“Would this note have anything to do … any connection at all … with the note that was slipped under our door … the warning about June twenty-first?” Wagner wanted to know. The answer to that question was clear to me but I preferred to furnish it in Cosima Wagner’s absence. “Madam Wagner must be exhausted after such a frightening experience,” I said, addressing Wagner. “May I suggest she retire. There will be time for me to take a more detailed statement of this affair from her tomorrow, I assure you.”
I was relieved that Cosima did not resist my suggestion. Holding her tenderly, Wagner assisted her as she made her way out of the drawing room. I heard him call to the housekeeper to escort her to their bedroom. On his return he wanted again to know if the two messages were related in some way.
“Yes, I believe they are,” I replied. “I recognize the printing … the same crude block letters.”
“And the writer is — ?”
“My guess is … Fräulein Cornelia Vanderhoute.”
“Your guess? Is that the best you can offer at a time like this?”
“Maestro Wagner, let me make one thing clear, if I have not already done so. I will not tell you how to write music. You will not tell me how to investigate crime.”
“But if you suspect this Vanderhoute woman, why are you not arresting her? Good God, man, what more do you need?”
I took a deep breath. “I need you to hire a certain French horn player by the name of Thilo Rotfogel. And not tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. I mean today!”
Wagner gave me a look of utter disbelief. “In a crisis like this you make jokes, Preiss?”
“This is not a joke,” I said. “In fact, my reason for wanting to see you so urgently today is that you must agree to reinstate this man Rotfogel. Let me explain — ”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I left the Wagner residence with the realization that a miracle of sorts had occurred, though one not entirely of my own making. In the face of tangible evidence that the life of his beloved Cosima was at serious risk, the Maestro agreed to allow Thilo Rotfogel to return to his post as principal French hornist in the opera orchestra, this concession nevertheless accompanied with a stern directive: “Tell that insolent bastard to behave himself or I swear I’ll throw him out again!” I promised to convey the warning word for word, though in truth I hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so. There is a time for everything, and this was not a time to ruffle Thilo Rotfogel’s feathers.
In fairness to Brunner — after all, it was he who had produced the Rotfogel piece of the puzzle — I invited him to accompany me to the hornist’s lodgings to break the good news, following which Brunner and I would proceed as planned to apprehend the elusive Fräulein Vanderhoute with all due haste.
Rotfogel occupied rooms in a quite respectable apartment building in the Old Town just off Marienplatz, close enough to the town hall that Brunner and I were able to check our pocket watches as the glockenspiel in the hall tower above the main entrance chimed six o’clock.
“He may be dining out somewhere,” Brunner said. “Being a bachelor he probably takes all of his meals in restaurants.” I thought I detected more than a hint of envy in Brunner’s voice. (I guessed mealtimes in the Brunner household — what with a wife and four young children — were regularly the same kind of stomach-churning occasions as mealtimes in the household of Wolfgang Preiss during my childhood back in Zwicken.)
According to the concierge, our man was at home. “Second floor, east end, last door down the hall. Name’s just above the door knocker. Oh, and don’t be surprised if it takes him a while to open up. He’s got more locks and chains on his door than the Bavarian State Prison.”
We found Rotfogel’s door without difficulty, but several stout raps with the brass doorknocker brought no response. Annoyed, I said to Brunner, “Try the damned door. We don’t have all night — ”
“But you heard the concierge — ”
“Try it anyway, Brunner.”
A single twist of the doorknob, as it turned out, was all that was required. No locks. No chains. “Well, that was easy!” Brunner said. He took the first step inside, I followed. “Herr Rotfogel?” Brunner called out. There was no reply. Again: “Herr Rotfogel?” Silence.